


Unmarked

by kinkandquiet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Kink, M/M, Omorashi, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinkandquiet/pseuds/kinkandquiet
Summary: Derek is desperate while in another pack's territory.





	

There were some things for which a human could be forgiven when an alpha could not.

Currently, Derek was watching Stiles take a leak against a tree in the heart of another pack’s territory.

Rather, he was trying not to watch, listen, or smell too closely as his own bladder contracted. 

Marking another pack’s territory was fine for a human. Most likely, the wolves would think nothing of it. That was not the case for Derek. It was also not something he’d considered when he’d been driving the Camaro north of Beacon Hills, drinking one coffee after another while Stiles slept in the passenger seat.

He was regretting that decision.

“I’m like, ninety percent sure these mushrooms are edible,” Stiles said as he shook himself off and tucked himself back into his jeans. He tilted his head. “No, ok, more like eighty-five percent.”

“They’re not edible.”

“Really?” Stiles spun around. “How can you tell?”

“You just pissed on them.”

“... Right. Point to Derek. That’s a no on the mushrooms.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“We didn’t stop once for beef jerky.” Stiles complained. “Not once. You see what happens to me when my brain is hungry, dude?”

“You slept the entire trip.”

“You pulled me out of bed! You put me in a car and didn’t let me drive. Car rides are very soothing. I can’t be blamed.”

“I blame you,” Derek said, and started walking again.

“And it’s unfair,” Stiles rejoined. “I don’t feel provided for, here. My needs aren’t being met. This--hey, berries!”

Derek paused long enough to check that the berries Stiles was storing in his cheeks like a chipmunk were indeed edible. He turned back to the trail when he’d determined they were only blackberries. They had a long way to walk still, and it was slow going with a human trailing behind him.

Since Derek and his pack had become something of unwilling experts on supernatural threats, they’d agreed to check the territory of a relatively new pack up north. Derek thought their alpha was simply overly anxious--another reason not to mark on her territory--but Stiles had been all over the idea of providing services to nearby packs to build their relationships.

Derek hadn’t minded an hour ago back at their motel room. He also hadn’t thought to use the toilet that had been right there, a fact that was weighing heavily on his bladder now.

"Here, try." Stiles hopped the few steps separating them, slinging his arm over Derek's shoulder and pressing a blackberry to his lips.

Derek tolerated the tangy burst of juice in his mouth, chewing mechanically.

"It's good." He said, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of his bladder clenching.

"Right? Hernandez Pack territory has some seriously superior berries. I'm thinking of transferring. Lending out my superior research skills. In the summers, like. Just for blackberry season."

"We're already lending our skills out," Derek reminded him. He stopped in the clearing ahead, breathing in the fresh scent of evergreens and overgrown moss, the teasing rush of a far away stream and the chirp of birds high above. There was no sign of anything remotely magic.

"Anything?" Stiles asked when Derek drew back his senses to focus on the single point beside him.

"No."

"Hm." Stiles popped another blackberry between his lips and stepped forward with a shrug.

As they walked, Derek stayed behind Stiles, self-conscious of the way his thighs pressed together. He kept his hands buried in his jacket pockets against the growing urge to squeeze himself. He wasn't that pathetic. It wasn't that bad. Stiles could turn around at any moment.

The distant sound of the stream flowing through his ears and the soft moss, wet beneath his shoes, weren’t helping his situation. As time passed, everything made the urge worse. Anywhere else, Derek could have just whipped it out and let go. He'd never had to restrain himself, nor had he needed to go so badly. His bladder felt hot and tight above his dick. His ears were turning red just from trying not think about it.

He forced himself to keep walking, responding monosyllabically when Stiles chatted.

Each footfall of his shoes to the ground sent a wave of urgency through his bladder. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Derek could drink another gallon of coffee, walk another ten miles in these woods, and it still wouldn't matter. He wasn’t going to start some minor pack feud because he couldn’t control himself, and he wasn’t going whine to Stiles.

He could hold it.

Miles of trail later, he wasn't anywhere near so confident.

Derek was sweating bullets. The curve of his back with slick with wet, beads rolling down his muscles. His leather jacket felt too tight and constricting, the fabric of his Henley and jeans sticking to his body as he soaked himself with perspiration. The need to piss had grown violently dire. 

He couldn't hold it. He'd piss through his jeans, spray on the grass, puddle urine and leave his mark in foreign territory. He'd lose control and start the most pathetic pack feud in history.

"Are you _sweating_?" Stiles sounded deeply scandalized.

Derek groaned in answer. He squeezed his thighs together. His bladder pulsed with every breath he took like it was inflating. The feeling was unbearable and no amount of subtly grinding his thighs together was easing it off.

"This was, like, two hours of light activity." Stiles continued, undaunted by Derek's pain. "I'm starting to think those muscles are just for show. I'm starting to think you're secretly all up on steroids."

"It's humid." Derek said through clenched teeth.

Whatever fondness Stiles might have had for him, he was still more likely to sing ‘rushing, rushing waterfalls’ than to be helpful. Not that anything but moving faster would help at the moment. Derek tensed his muscles and set forward. 

There was no magic here. They'd done what they'd come for. They stood at the edge of the forest, miles from the Camaro, and further still from their hotel room.

Derek was fucked.

Derek was so deeply, deeply fucked.

"Let's go," He gritted out.

Stiles had been giving him a contemplative look. Derek clenched his hand in his pocket and hoped for mercy. Stiles wouldn't let him live it down if--but no, there was no point in thinking that way. He had to make it. There was no other option.

The other option was all along the moss covered earth, behind every tree and teasing Derek endlessly. If he could just relieve his bladder somewhere – but of course he couldn’t.

The distant sound of the stream teased him every step of the way towards distant relief. Derek groaned, his bladder convulsed, and the water kept running relentlessly.

It seemed like a lifetime, an utterly impossible task. He'd accomplished impossible tasks before. Now should be no different. Now would be no different

When they finally reached the Camaro, Derek breathing in immense relief, Stiles pulled him up short.

“Hold on, I have to pee.”

Derek bit his tongue. “Now?”

“You never take rest stops,” Stiles shrugged, already turning away from him. “So yeah, totally. I’ll be a minute.”

As soon as Stiles disappeared behind the cover of foliage, Derek shot for the car. He jerked the passenger door open and scrambled guiltily through the glove compartment. It was here. It had to be here somewhere. He had left it here the last time he’d shined the Camaro--

Derek’s fingers curled around cotton terry, barely more than a rag of it. He yanked it from the open glove compartment and shoved it down the front of his pants.

He managed to get the rag between his briefs and his body before the first desperate spurt of urine warmed his crotch. Panting, he curled his hand and wrapped the rag around his dick.

Pee erupted into the cotton towel, soaking right through to his hand. He shifted the rag, each corner becoming saturated. It was only a matter of seconds before he had to stop. The towel was warm and no longer white when he pulled it back out of his pants, leaving a wet trail over his abdomen.

Derek had never been so thankful his mate was human as he tucked the soaked rag back into the glove compartment, swearing he would clean the whole Camaro as soon as they were back in Beacon Hills.

Stiles reemerged from the trees just as Derek was closing the glove box. Derek hadn’t heard him coming. His skin burned with the realization of how lucky he was that Stiles hadn’t emerged a few seconds earlier. Derek couldn’t concentrate on his sound or scent. All he could concentrate on was the throbbing of his bladder and the seconds of relief.

Stiles raised an eyebrow at the open passenger door. Then he started to grin. “I get to drive?”

Derek looked between the open door and Stiles' excited face. He could think of no other excuse for having opened the passenger side door. He couldn’t think of anything but the need to piss.

He tossed Stiles the keys.

“Hell yeah!” Stiles caught them with a ‘whoop.’

Derek folded into the car. His jeans folded into his bladder. Derek gasped, open mouthed and pale when Stiles dropped into the driver's seat. 

Letting Stiles drive had the unintended consequence of ensuring Derek's continued desperation until they reached the motel. He couldn't pull off at a fast food joint and Derek wasn't going to ask. He absolutely wasn't going to let Stiles laugh at him. 

The leather seat squeaked in protest as Derek tried and failed to hold himself still. His right foot tapped. He bit his lip and tasted blood.

Stiles was humming the Batman song. 

Derek curled his toes in his shoes and silently cursed. He clenched his jaw, trying to keep his voice steady when he demanded “Drive faster.”

Stiles checked the rearview mirror. “Faster, like we’re being chased. Or faster, like your car is too sexy to abide speed limits?”

“Whichever is _faster_.”

Stiles pressed his foot down. The Camaro sped up. Derek was going to hold it. Derek was going to wait. He was going to control himself in his car and he was going to lock the door behind him when they parked outside the motel. He was going to unlock the door to their motel room and he was going to shut the bathroom door behind him before he pissed like mad. He was going to do all of that, and Stiles was never going to have the chance to make fun of him for this.

A bump in the road had him grabbing his dick before he pissed in his jeans.

“Stiles!”

“You said faster!” The Camaro slowed down noticeably and Derek nearly shouted at him again. “You can have fast or you can have smooth. Pick your fave.”

Derek gritted his teeth. Too slow, and he'd wet himself in his own car. One wrong bump in the road, and he'd wet himself in his own car. It was becoming a real possibility that other outcomes simply weren't possible. And what was he going to say, then? There was no way he could hide it in the confines of the Camaro. What the hell would he say to Stiles? 

“You're freaking me out.” Stiles flicked his gaze between the road and Derek, a wrinkle between his furrowed eyebrows. “Should I be freaked out?”

Derek tensed every muscle with renewed resolve. Nothing. He wouldn't tell Stiles anything, because he absolutely wouldn't wet himself like a poorly trained puppy. 

“Don't worry about it.”

 _Don't think about it_ , he meant, because Stiles was perceptive. There was a point at which Derek's desperate squirming would be obvious to Stiles, and Derek absolutely didn't want to reach that point. 

Thankfully, after only a few moments of silence, Stiles went back to humming the Batman theme song. 

Derek crushed his knees together, gritted his teeth, hitched his hips off the seat, and absolutely didn't give in to relief. 

Streetlights, stop lights, and a journey neither smooth nor fast enough later, the Camaro pulled into the motel parking lot off the main street. 

Derek's thighs were trembling with tension. His ass was half an inch off the leather seat, clenched as he shifted back and forth and cursed internally.

Stiles turned the key, the engine tumbled into silence, and Derek grappled for the door handle and jerked. The handle came off in his hand. The door swung open and Derek tossed the handle aside despite Stiles’ noise of surprise. He levered himself towards the door, shoved his feet flat on the pavement outside, and--stopped.

His legs were shaking from his thighs to his toes. They splayed out in front of him uselessly. His muscles were so tired from clenching that he could barely move them to squirm. He couldn't stand. 

God. Fuck, no…

He was practically going now, his bladder screaming at him, the coffee, so much fucking liquid he’d drunk straining inside him.

Stiles popped around his side of the car and stuck his face in.

“I can't say I foresaw you ripping the door handle off your own car in our future,” Stiles began, “but I also can't say I haven't marveled at the apparent structural integrity of, like, most the things you touch, Ironman.” 

A pained noise escaped Derek's throat. He was about to humiliate himself, and Stiles was worried about the car. 

Stiles lips thinned at the sound. He dropped a hand on Derek's head and patted.

“Don't cry, man. Nothing a little superglue can't fix.” Then Stiles said, “Here, let me show you. Have you got any in your glove box?”

Derek's hand caught Stiles' an inch from the glove box. He had to reign himself in before he pressed the bones in Stiles thin wrist together. Stiles still winced when he drew his hand back. 

“What gives?” He rubbed his wrist, giving Derek a dramatically betrayed look. “I could totally fix it.” 

“Don't.” Derek managed to grit out around sharp teeth. He could feel his eyes flaring red.

Stiles drew back, looking genuinely concerned now. “Right, bad touch. I got it.”

A minute had passed, perhaps two. Derek was still containing himself. The motel room wasn't that far. Relief wasn't that far. If he could walk, if he just moved, he'd relieve himself in the next minute.

Derek crossed his legs over each as he twisted, one hand finding the car door as he tried to push himself up. He managed a half squat above the seat before gasping sharply and falling back. His hand flew to his crotch and stopped on his thigh when he remembered Stiles, scraping short fingernails over the thick material of his jeans.

“Derek?”

Obvious. Pathetically, embarrassingly obvious.

Taking a steeling breath, Derek swung himself out of the car, planted his weight on his feet, and hoped for mercy. 

Stiles swayed out of his way. Derek just stood there, jaw clenched, trying not to double over. His muscles were tensing and relaxing, his abs and his arms and his thighs, all trying to squeeze and let go.

What felt like a massive weight in his bladder responded to the change in gravity by crashing against his clenched sphincter. A single drop of piss collected at the head of his dick. He felt his lips part in a silent gasp, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. 

“Earth to Derek. Everything all right there?”

“Fine,” Derek rasped. He picked one foot up and jammed it down again onto the pavement in front of him.

“That's so encouraging.” Stiles said. “I'm feeling just super encouraged right now.”

He could see the door to their motel room. It was only a short walk across a parking lot. He'd been hiking all day. He could do this now. Had to. 

Stiles followed dubiously as Derek stumbled his way across the parking lot and towards relief. His whole lower body might have been weak with hours of strain, his bladder rock hard and over full, but now he could see the door to his relief. All he has to do was make it there.

Make it there, and unlock it. 

When he reached the door, desperation thundering through every step he'd taken, Derek grappled at his pockets for the motel key. The pockets of his leather jacket were empty. The mere touch of his sweaty hands on his jean pockets sent fresh waves of pressure through his bladder. He pulled the key from his pocket, cursing, and shoved it with shaking hands at the door.

Behind him, Stiles spoke up. “On a scale of one to ‘Stiles pees his pants,’ how creepy is the thing that’s inevitably after us?”

Derek’s hand slipped on the lock, scraping the key over the metal. He bent his knees, his thighs trembling. He jammed the key toward the lock again.

“I’m going to take that as like, a six. You are looking very six-ish right now.”

The door wouldn’t open. Derek’s hands were trembling and slick with sweat. He couldn’t get the key in the lock, couldn’t turn it, couldn’t get the door open. He was going to piss outside the front door.

The key slipped again. Biting back a howl, Derek clenched his fist and curled the key into a useless hunk of metal in his palm.

“Seven,” said Stiles. “I’d like to re-evaluate my earlier estimate to-- Derek, clue me in, here. What the hell is going on?”

He growled and jerked the door handle back and forth, but it didn't relent. Derek dropped the crumpled key and popped the claws on his right hand.

“You’re going to pick the lock.” Stiles said. “You’re going to pick the lock for the room to which we have a key. Had a key. We had a key before you maimed it.”

Derek flexed his hand, forced one nail between the door and the door-jam, and sliced the lock in half.

Stiles made a disbelieving noise. The door creaked open.

Two open doors and only a few more steps from the toilet, Derek was absolutely not going to humiliate himself by pissing through his jeans while crouched in front of the door. He was not.

Stiles barged past him. “Great. Home sweet Motel 6. I know: let’s talk to Stiles about whatever is going down right now. You said there was nothing magical in that forest.”

Drawing in a steadying breath, Derek pushed himself to his feet. He took one mincing step forward, his bladder throbbing with the reverberations of every movement. He focused on the open door to the bathroom.

Stiles blocked his path.

“Now that? Is not going to happen. No way, no how, dude.”

“Stiles.” Derek’s growl came out more like a groan. His fists were clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides. Stiles folded his arms over his chest, unrelenting. 

“You cannot run from me in dinky hotel room! Joke’s on you: There is literally nowhere to run.”

Derek could see the door to the ‘dinky’ bathroom, hiding the dinky toilet, over Stiles shoulders. Whatever desperate yearning made it onto his face had Stiles rolling his eyes.

“That’s a no. You are not locking yourself in the bathroom. That is not good communication. You can do better. You have skills now. Communication skills. They’re… let’s not call them good, let’s not lie to ourselves. Adequate. Your communications skills are adequate. Some of the time.”

“Stiles.”

He was so close, and he was going to pee on the floor two steps from Stiles and two more from the waiting toilet. 

Waves of urgency were crashing over him continuously now. Stiles set his jaw stubbornly. With the next cramping spasm, his bladder let go. Hot warmth streamed through the fly of his jeans and dribbled down his thigh, wetting the fabric and tickling his skin. In a moment, Derek was bent in half, one hand balanced on his thigh, the other clenched around his dick through the newly damp fabric of his jeans. His face was hot with embarrassment.

“I... may have misread the situation.” Stiles said.

Derek’s vision was swimming. Stiles sounded far away. His lower stomach was bursting, his briefs were wet, his jeans damp, his fist clamped over his dick and wet heat was rolling down his thigh. His body shook. A roll of his bladder and a fresh leak was wetting the front of his pants, tearing a groan from his throat.

“Ok. I may have _definitely_ misread the situation. That is a thing that happened.”

Derek opened his mouth to point out that _yes_ , and would Stiles _please move now_ but the only sounds he was currently capable of making were tight and animal-like.

Stiles eyes grew wider. “Oh my god, Derek.”

The hard rock of his bladder was cracking for the second time, and this time there was no rag in between his clothes and his cock to stop the leaks from soaking through his jeans. This time, Stiles was standing in front of him, frozen. Urine burst through his cock and instantly soaked through his jeans.

“You’re pissing yourself.” Stiles announced loudly. His eyes were huge in his face, hands trembling slightly.

With no dignity left to preserve, Derek shoved both hands into his wet crotch, twisting his legs together, doing anything he could to stop the next leak from becoming a stream that would leave a puddle in the middle of the doorway. The was nothing he could do to stop the spurt that wet his thigh even as he prevented the puddle.

“That’s kind of gross.” Stiles eyes were glued to the wet patch spreading down his right thigh. “Also, kind of hot? Wow. I am discovering new things about myself. Wow.”

Fuck. Derek threw his hips back and forth. He couldn’t take it. He had to release it. There was nothing else. His whole body was going to explode in a burst of urine. Waves of urgency kept rolling over him and threatening to pull him under. 

“Fuck, Stiles, turn around.” Derek finally managed to bite out, the shame and horror that were fighting for dominance in his chest making his voice strange.

“Ah, do I have to?” The scent of arousal was heady in the air now, mixed with the sharp scent of piss.

“Don’t look.” Derek bit out. “Just--for a second. I can’t… Don’t watch.”

“I kind of want to. With the watching.”

Helpless, Derek groaned.

Stiles seemed to shake himself out of a fugue. He looked behind himself into the empty hotel room and back to Derek.

“Oh, shit, wait, I can be a good person, I swear. I’m sorry, I’ll... I can help.”

Abruptly, Stiles was tugging at Derek’s arm. Even the minor shift of pressure on his crotch allowed a new spurt of piss to soak through his fly.

“Come on. You don’t want to pee here. It’s like two steps to the bathroom. You can hold it. I’m being supportive.”

A torrent burst down the front of Derek's jeans. He squirmed, hand clasping his crotch and thighs clenching. Stiles eyes grew larger. 

“You can’t hold it. I take it back. Okay. Plan B! Fuck, wait, what’s Plan B?”

Stiles was starting to look as panicked as Derek felt. There was nothing he could do. Stiles took his face in his hands, fingers brushing Derek’s stubbled jaw. He looked conflicted, cheeks pink tinged with what might have been arousal or might have been embarassment.

“I am so sorry for kind of enjoying this.” Stiles admitted. He swooped in suddenly and pressed his lips to Derek’s sweat damp forehead. “You are extremely sexy, though.”

“Not. Helping.” Derek bit out.

“I’m trying though! Okay, Plan B, I have a Plan B.”

Without further notice, Stiles dove into the bathroom.

Derek tried to follow. He lifted his foot and took one step forward. His heel hit the ground and urine gushed down his thigh. It was more than a leak. In a flash his whole leg was wet. Beads of pee were forming and dripping from the head of his cock with every second, never quite in control of himself any longer.

Stiles darted out of the bathroom with a fluffy towel in his arms. He promptly dropped it.

Derek did everything in his power to tense up, to stop, but his muscles were weak. He could barely maintain his footing, nevermind walk to the bathroom. Even standing was becoming an ordeal.

Piss poured out of him, soaking the front of his jeans where his dick was clamped under his fist and trailing down his legs to the floor, a puddle forming as his bladder cramped relentlessly, rejecting another rush of urine. 

Even as it became clear Derek was going to wet himself--that he was already wetting himself, that he had, past tense, wet himself--he grasped for control, grinding his thighs together, twisting his legs, and clamping his hand over his wet crotch. All of his squirming led to nothing. The next wave of need had him pissing through his already wet jeans.

Stiles just stood there, his mouth open, his cheeks dark pink, watching Derek lose complete control. 

Derek's bladder rejected its contents in waves that flowed past his exhausted attempts at control each time. Desperation began to give way to relief. Derek’s clamped thighs began to part, the tensed muscles of his legs loosening, the rock hard weight of his bladder cracking, and finally his fingers unclamping over his crotch, giving in to the rush of relief.

And God, it was a relief. He'd been holding on so long, relief felt like a new sensation, fresh and breezy, leaving Derek feeling windswept and out of breath. 

As Derek’s breath was beginning to even out, Stiles’ sped up.

The knots of his shoulders had loosened and released with his bladder and his arms felt like wet noodles dangling at his sides. He took a step forward and heard a squelch, realizing belatedly that he couldn't move; he’d only track the puddle he’d made around the carpet.

“I want to help you.” Stiles said. His right hand was stroking up and down the tent of his crotch. “I do, but, ah…” He bit his lip and stroked harder.

“Stiles?”

“Fuck, that was hot,” Stiles breathed. “You must have… how long did you wait for?”

Shocked into honesty, Derek admitted, “There’s a wet rag in the car.”

Stiles moaned, his head tilted back and his hips jerking forward. Derek reached for him, and Stiles responded to his wordless gesture by walking right into the wet spot and his arms. He kissed Derek’s neck, warm and pink all over as his hips and hand moved against Derek’s wet jeans.

Derek felt weak and fumbly, like he’d just healed from a major injury and hadn’t yet made all the connections between his mind and his functioning limbs. He resisted the powerful urge to sink to his knees, instead leaning into Stiles.

Hand still jerking roughly outside his skinny jeans, Stiles came in his pants. Derek nearly did collapse when Stiles slung himself all over Derek, both arms flung over the tired muscles of his shoulders and wet lips kissing a trail over his throat. Derek wavered for a moment, his legs and thighs flaring in protest, before Stiles seemed to change his mind and inserted himself under Derek’s shoulder, tugging Derek’s arm around his neck. Derek slumped into him. Stiles pressed his lips to Derek's sweaty forehead. 

“Derek. Derek, fuck. What even is this? What was that?”

Derek swallowed, “I couldn’t.”

“Oh, no, dude, don’t look like that. The eyebrows. The eyebrows are so upset.”

Leaning in, Stiles pressed his mouth above each eye, stroking the tuft of his eyebrow with his finger afterwards.

“I couldn’t hold it.”

“I know. It was _awesome_.”

“What are the chances that I live this down within our lifetime?”

Stiles shrugged. “You pissed in your pants, I came in mine: seems like neither of us have much ground to stand on.” 

“Oh.”

“Additionally, and you can totally say no, but I wouldn't mind if we, maybe, revisited this scenario in the future.”

“Right,” said Derek, entirely out of his depth now. 

“It's just a thought I had,” said Stiles. “I'm a thinker. Here's another one: you, me, and a hot shower.”

“Right.”

Stiles took Derek's hand and led him towards the toilet with more patience than he generally displayed. Derek stumbled. His jeans were wet and stiff. His shoes squelched. Stiles tugged at him, and Derek took the final couple of steps to the bathroom. 

He toed off his wet shoes on the tile as Stiles started the water running. His hands were shaking too badly to work the zipper on his wet jeans, but Stiles dropped quickly to his knees and unzipped him. Derek might have blushed if he hadn't already been permanently red from the tips of his ears down. 

They stumbled into the shower together, Stiles bare shoulder still the only thing keeping Derek on his feet. 

As the water streamed over them both, washing away sweat and urine and spunk, Stiles eyed him with a dangerously thoughtful expression. 

“I don't suppose you…” Stiles bit his lip and nudged Derek's bare toes with his meaningfully, “have anything left?”

Derek blinked.

“I'm a bad person, it's been discussed.”

“You're…” When Derek couldn't find the words to describe Stiles, and didn’t imagine he ever would, he brushed his hand down his front, resting his palm over the ache where his bladder had been distended, now a soft expanse of skin. 

He let go, giving Stiles what he wanted, the last spurts of hot piss trailing down Stiles leg and wetting his toes before the shower washed it away. Stiles looked poleaxed. 

“I love being a bad person,” Stiles said faintly. “It's honestly so great.”

The scent of piss and come washed down the drain as the hot shower cooled, but the look on Stiles' face and the territorial feeling gripping Derek's chest felt surprisingly permanent.


End file.
